Bastien’s eyes penetrated mine for a brief second before he turned, the crisp cut of his broad shoulders pulling at the seams of his black button-down clerical shirt.
The thing was, I’d walked into St. Michael’s expecting to find Father Martin.
Instead, I’d found Bastien Castaneda.
FatherBastien.
I watched his broad form across the small room, bent to one knee and loading the kindling into the mouth of the stove. This storm had rushed in in the early hours of the morning, the furnace out since the first spray of rain froze on the limbs of the trees and took down power lines all over our neighborhood, along with the entire city of Philadelphia before dawn on my first night here.
I’d spent all day at the rectory as Bastien delivered items to the parishioners in his neighborhood. The fire warm and the food was good enough when the small church family banded together. And sweet Hugo, his mom was required to go into work at the only service station still open with the help of giant city generators.
I swallowed down the bite of emotion that tore at my throat when I thought of the state Bastien had found me in yesterday morning, unceremoniously dumped on my ass on the sidewalk in the early morning hours, angry tears leaking from my frozen eyelashes at the state of my hellish life. He hadn’t seen me yesterday morning huddled behind the wheel of my beat-up car, but I’d seen him. He’d paused on the church steps just after dawn, light snow dusted his dark hair, and with my heart heavy and last night’s dress still clinging to my form, I’d trudged through the fresh snow to find my way to his warmth.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise that I’d found myself in the old neighborhood—St. Mike’s was a present and looming figure over my shoulder in every over-exposed photo of my childhood. These walls were familiar to me, the stone steps I’d spent many nights on playing neighborhood games with my friends—but all of that was gone, and in it’s place was Father Bastien.
I’d nearly frozen solid last night trying to keep the old-fashioned fireplace in the cottage stoked, but it was infinitely warmer than the night before stretched out in the front seat of my car—my meager belongings and failed scholarship admission papers stacked high on the seat behind me. The story was complicated, not something I cared to think about, but even without knowing me from Eve, Father Bastien Castaneda had taken me in just when I didn’t have a single other place to turn to.
“I was thinking, if you’re not uncomfortable with it—” Bastien locked the door of the wood stove and stood “—you’re welcome to stay here tonight. There’s another bedroom upstairs that never gets used. I don’t even remember the last time I opened the door.”
He must have taken my silence to mean something because he continued.
“I’m more than happy to get the fire going again tonight at your cabin, but I just thought…collectively—” his eyes crossed the homey space of the church’s residence “—we work pretty well together.”
I swallowed again, pushing my eyelids shut as I nodded. “Right. It’s so much work to ask you to walk through the snow to light my stove when we’re already here and warm, and there’s food.”
Bastien’s throat cleared, dark-chocolate eyes narrowing a moment before he shifted around me and into the kitchen. “I’m glad you agree.”
Had I agreed?
I wasn’t sure about that.
I wasn’t above YouTubing a video of how to light a wood stove. I was confident I could do it, but the idea of wasting wood with two stoves burning all night felt more than a little indulgent.
I had worked off of my own stores of wood last night, but they’d been depleted pretty quickly, and not in my memory had we had an ice storm that killed the power for this long—it was usually restored within a few hours when I was a kid—and living on campus the last few years I’d gotten spoiled with the constant source of warmth and food, all paid for by my full scholarship ride.
“Hugo!” Bastien interrupted my racing thoughts. “Your mama is here.” Father Bastien crossed the room, ushering her into the small rectory.
“Mommy!” Hugo ran full tilt across the room to greet his mother, wrapping his arms around her legs.
“Oh, Hugo, I missed you today.” Exhaustion laced her words.
“We had fun. Hugo even helped me cook and store some meals for parishioners,” I offered positively.
Her smile widened before she pulled the little boy into her arms. “I’m so proud of you, my beautiful boy.”
Bastien had already gathered Hugo’s snowsuit, boots, and backpack, helping it on the little boy’s arms as his mom picked up the few toys he’d played with. “Thank you again a million times, Tressa. I don’t know what I would do without you. All these additional shifts are almost killing me, but the extra money can’t be beat. Hugo seems to love you,” she grinned down at the boy clutching at my leg.
“I love him.” I meant it fully. “You have my number from this morning. Text anytime you or Hugo need me.”
Hugo’s mom, Tracey, mouthed the words thank you again, before locking hands with the little toddler and guiding him out of the side door and to the car. The way Bastien guided the tiny family to the safe warmth of the idling four-door sedan made deep corners of my heart swell.
I tipped my head to the side, watching intently as he opened the back door for Hugo, helping the seat belt around his little body in the car seat.
The thought struck me that it was too bad a man like Father Bastien would never have children—forbidden from the very dream, when he had so much love to give. Maybe that was the thing about a man like Bastien—called to fulfill something greater with all that love and patience overflowing.
Bastien turned then, catching my eye in the frost-laced window of the kitchen. Wet snowflakes melted into his eyelashes, the quirk of a quick grin appearing before he bowed his head and ducked from my vision.
He entered the tiny space a moment later.
